


Executioners

by lungsieku



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Manipulation, Origin Story, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-26
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-23 17:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12512748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lungsieku/pseuds/lungsieku
Summary: A collection of short standalone stories in which the killers meet the Entity.[This started as a one-off about the Wraith but then someone suggested I write more for the other killers and then I got ideas and now here we are.]





	1. The Wraith

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all. So I love Dead by Daylight, especially the Wraith. I find his backstory to be so tragic, and I felt like writing something short and a little strange about what I imagine went down with poor Philip when he was brought into the Entity's realm.
> 
> [Plot twist there's gonna be more about the other killers too.]

Philip Ojomo wakes up in a field, under a blank chalkboard sky. He is caked in mud as if it has just rained, though on all sides he is surrounded by only brittle, yellowing grass. Dry as dust.

He is all alone.

He manages to sit up, though his joints scream with a flash of strange, deep pain, and Philip thinks, _what on earth happened to me?_

He reaches up to run his hands over his face, to massage some of the soreness away, but freezes prematurely. His breath stutters.

Because—  
his hands.  
His hands are covered  
in **blood**.

There, mixed a little with the mud and dirt, but still so bright, and so warm, how had he not felt it before? And then he blinks, and almost screams. Because it is not just on his hands.

It’s **everywhere**.

Philip draws in the sharpest, sourest breath of his life.  
And remembers.

[[there were the cars.  
and the crusher  
     and

                (there was the **blood** )  
                (just a little bit, just a drop)  
                (coming from one of the trunks)

and Philip, of course, he  
opened  
it.

then there was the boy. his eyes, so scared, looking up at him like he was the reaper himself. and oh, how the fear had lanced his chest, had made him ache.

so he did what he could, barely thinking.  
but the boy—  
the boy, so scared,  
        (so stupid)  
               he ran.

into Mister Azarov.

and then Mister Azarov’s hands were there, so suddenly there, around the boy’s neck and Philip could see the veins standing out on his skin and his eyes almost glowing, glowing with, with—

and Mister Azarov put the boy back in the trunk. looked Philip in the face. and said:

**Be Quiet. Do Your Job.**

and that was when he knew.

he knew.

(he had known before, known just a little, deep down, but he never said anything, of course he didn’t, because he needed this job, he knew when he took it that something was a little off, of course, something had to be off with a man like Azarov, but he didn’t say anything, he did as he was told, did his job, didn’t ask any questions because)

(because the world was an ugly place and he knew it, he had known back home, too, had known not to expect the world to give him much, had known he simply had to work hard, hard as he could, and maybe, just maybe, the world would throw him a scrap that he could be happy with, and so)

(he had done his job)

but the anger. the **hate**. it had come so suddenly. filling him up, and  
the crowbar had been there, right there, and  
then it was in his hands and Mister Azarov had his back turned and

it made  
such a perfect sound  
on Mister Azarov’s skull.  
ringing, ringing, ringing

and Philip  
hit him  
again  
      & again  
           & again  
                 & again & again &again&again&again&again&again&again

until there was nothing left  
but the **blood**.  
and the **hate**.  
**everywhere**.  
and then—]]

He was here.

Philip opens his mouth and screams.

But no sound comes out.

He screams and screams and wails but no voice flees his throat. There is no sound at all in the field, and oh, _oh god, where on earth is he?_

In the wrecking yard, the anger had just swallowed him. Swallowed him up so quickly, he had never been so angry before in his life. Like someone had just struck a match—

and lit him up.

And suddenly Philip is aware.

Aware of something, Something Else, in the field with him.

This time he could feel it, like the wick sensing the hand that reaches out with its thumb on the lighter. And he knew at once that he was in the presence of that hand. That Something.

The whisper that had set him aflame with fury in the wrecking yard.

That made him kill.

 _ **Oh, but you were a killer long before I found you** ,_ came a voice. No longer a whisper. No need to whisper now that he was here.

Right in the palm of its hand.

Philip shuddered. Above him, like a splotch of ink, a patch of the sky churned darkly.

_No._

_Nonononononononono—_

_I didn’t know. I didn’t._

**_But you did._ **

_No, no I didn’t, I just—_

**_You knew something was wrong about Mister Azarov. But you didn’t say anything. Didn’t do anything._ **

_But he—_

**_You killed them._ **

_But—_

**_You killed them all._ **

_I DIDN’T MEAN TO, I DIDN’T KNOW, PLEASE—_

**_And then you killed him too._ **

_please stop, please—_

**_Because you are a killer._ **

**_Admit it, Philip._ **

**_ADMIT IT._ **

Philip collapses in the mud, covering his face with his bloody hands, weeping no tears.

_I—_

_I did it._

_I killed them._

**_That’s right. You are a killer._ **

_Please, oh please just make it stop, I can’t—_

**_Say it. Say it, Philip._ **

_I’m a killer._

_**Get up**_ , the voice commands. And he does, as if on strings. The dirt clings to him, fuses with him, and Philip feels himself change. Feels It molding him in Its hands like a doll out of clay. Black tendrils come out of the sky and are all around him, and he feels sick with it. Sick with himself and all the vileness inside him.

He tries again to scream, but there is only a rough rasp of breath. Like an animal.

Like a monster.

The shadows coalesce in his hands into two objects. A short scythe and a bell, both adorned with skulls and barbs.

On the edge of the field, the trees ripple and split to reveal a faint gleaming in the distance.

 _ **Go,**_ the voice orders. **_Do as you are told._**

**_Be quiet. Do your job._ **

So he goes. Bare feet gliding through the dead grass.

He has no tears, no rage. Nothing.

Nothing but the bell, the blade, and a terrible, bone-deep certainty that this is exactly what he deserves. 


	2. The Shape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, I'm doing more of these. This one is much shorter and less fragmented than the first because I imagine that the Entity really didn't have to do much work to get Michael involved in its whims. 
> 
> I've watched the Halloween movies and I always found Michael Myers to be a potentially interesting character, though the movies got really contradictory and ultimately failed in building a solid character for him. So here's my input. I'll be honest, I wasn't as inspired for this one as I was for Philip's chapter, because I adore Philip. It was harder for me to write a character like this who was so detached from emotion, while Philip's chapter was all about his emotions and how the Entity manipulated him through them. 
> 
> p.s. I don't plan on writing chapters for all the other killers, but only the ones I find interesting and get ideas for. Potential other subjects might be the Huntress, Trapper, and Nurse. We'll see how motivated I am.
> 
> p.p.s. If you like these and want more please let me know in the comments! I read them all and they really do help with my motivation.

Michael Myers had known for a long time that something was following him. Something special.

He could feel It breathing down his neck, stalking him as he would stalk others. But It did not want to hurt him. If it did, It would have done so long ago, instead of clinging to him like a spider to silk. It perched in the shadows beside him, quiet, waiting. He knew It was there. And It was powerful.

Michael knew this, because It had shown Itself, in Its way.

Because Michael could not die.

He had been stabbed and shot and burned a hundred times over and more, and yet he would not die. Something would not let him.

And Michael knew, as he had come to know a great many odd things, with simple and complete assurance, that this was all Its doing. It wanted him alive, and so he was alive. Stubbornly, profanely alive.

So he was not overly surprised when things changed. When his wanderings did not take him in the direction he had planned, he knew at once that It was involved. Just as It had involved Itself before, in the matter of his mortality. Now Michael had the distinct notion that he had been moved, like a pin on a map. Or, more accurately, like the map had been taken apart under his feet and rearranged around him.

Michael was simply and suddenly not where he had intended himself to be. Strings had been pulled somewhere, and though he could not see them, he found himself standing in their aftermath. At this turn of events a faint curiosity flickered in him, but he did not pay it much mind.

Because he was home. Haddonfield.

Haddonfield, but different. It was askew somehow, as if he had walked into his own memory. He passed his house, old and decayed, and it was exactly how he had last seen it. The streets foggy and dark, suspended in time.

Unfinished business had led him home before, and then out into the blank world beyond.

 ** _You are right_** , whispered a voice. Again, Michael was not surprised at its emergence. The voice sounded so very much like his own. He recognized distinctly that he had been brought to a threshold, and was expected to cross over it. **_Come, there is work to be done._**

Michael found the knife in his hand. He felt those invisible strings working again, and a pull burned in his body, the only one he had ever felt. The same one that had led him home the first time.

 _So_ , Michael thought—a dim, vacant murmur, _she must still be here._

He was not surprised by this, either. Just like him, it seemed, the one he sought had a stubborn way of always carrying on.

So Michael went, slipping into shadow as easily and comfortably as he always had. He clutched the knife, and it flooded him with a familiar grim vitality.

Because there was work to be done.


	3. The Trapper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an interesting to write. It's been really fun to try and figure out how to characterize all the killers. Evan, though. Evan was easy. I'm quite fond of parts of this one. Hope you guys enjoy it!

Evan MacMillan was trapped. And it was his own damn fault.

His father withered by the day, the mine was unworkable, the staff hounded him insistently, and he could not put an end to any of it.

Evan simply did not know what to do. Though he had already done far too much to be wise and yet not enough to keep them safe. And not just unwise—he had done what many, what most, would call _evil_. If only they knew.

Suspicion was like a weed. It spread impossibly fast, and he could bury his arms in the dirt all hours of the day and still not uproot all its spawn. More and more people had come knocking, their questions pointed at him like knives. Neighbors, employees, contractors, journalists. He answered them the same way each time, the same placating grin stuck to his face. He couldn’t tell who was less fooled, them, or him. It was only a matter of time, now. Sooner or later, he would be caught. And everything they had, everything his father had built, would crumble. Evan could not let that happen, and yet.

And yet.

What was he to do?

Father could not be moved in such a fragile state, and Evan trusted no one else to see to his care. And if he ran alone, though the very thought made him sick, it would only add his father’s death to the many already resting on his broad shoulders. He would never be free. Every way he could see it, he was trapped. Trapped by the work of his own tireless hands.

 _Damn it all_ , Evan thought. _Damn it all to the lowest hell._

He would be there soon enough. He was not afraid, truth be told. He’d accepted it quite a while back. How else could he have done such loathsome deeds? Surely no faithful man could stomach such a burden. No, Evan was not afraid. Let the devil take him. Let him try.

 _You’re not the first_ , Evan would say, if they ever did meet. _Doubt you’ll be the last._

_Take a number. Get in line. Wait your turn._

What was damnation to the great shadow of the MacMillan empire? Nothing. Damnation could wait until he was done.

Because Evan MacMillan was many things, but a coward was not one of them. He had to do something, and so he would. He just needed to ascertain what that something would be.

In every time of great upheaval, Evan took himself to the woods, and walked. When stress clouded his head, the moonlight could clear it. When the temperature teetered just slightly on the sharp edge of too cold for comfort. That was when Evan thought his best. He knew the layout of the property better than his own name. He could walk it for hours and never lose his way. He would know it blind, deaf, dumb. In his sleep. Even in death, he would know it.

Evan walked for a long time, his mind swarming and buzzing with all his choices, a thousand different threads that spread in every direction. The old gray trees watched him in their familiar silent way. They had seen so much, but never waned. They stood resolute. He needed to do the same.

All at once Evan found himself in a darkness he did not recognize. A night that wasn’t night. The air had changed as quick as a dying man’s last gasp.

Something was wrong.

Blinking into the gloom, Evan studied the dirt, the grass, the trees, the shining silver moon. They were not his home’s.

In some way, somehow, he was—  
                                                  _lost._  
                                                              Lost?

No. Not lost.

Unmoored. Stolen, stolen away.

By _Something_.

Fog rolled in around his heels. Though he did not know why, Evan opened his mouth to speak.

To the strange, unholy dark, and whatever had brought it.

But the darkness spoke first.

 ** _Hello, Evan,_** It said.

**_It is time the two of us formally meet._ **

_Who are you?_

**_An observer, you could say. An admirer. A patron. Of individuals like yourself._ **

_Like myself?_

**_Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean._ **

Of course he knew. And at the admission, the memories swelled through him. The mine shaft, the explosion, the blood, the bodies. All his doing.

Had the devil truly come for him?

 ** _I have a proposition for you_** , the darkness said. If Evan did not know better, on account of his eyes, he would say he was speaking to any ordinary gentleman. **_One that will benefit us both. One that can assure the safety of what you cherish most._**

And—  
  
Just like that.

There it was.

Evan smiled. He was calm, so calm. Just as he had been when he set the explosives in the mine, as he’d piled sin after sin onto his shoulders like coal into a furnace.

His solution had arrived. Just as he knew one would.

If he were a weaker man, prone to fretfulness, perhaps he would have taken a moment to question this voice and Its assurances.

But Evan MacMillan was not a weak man.

No such moment came.

**_So._ **

**_Do we have a deal?_ **

_We do._

**_Excellent._ **

**_Let us get to work._ **

Evan seized one last serene glance of the moon, gleaming like a knife. Then the darkness took him.


	4. The Huntress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (TW for a very brief insinuation of suicide, and some bloody stuff.)
> 
> So I wrote this chapter while listening to the new Evanescence album, and let me tell you, it was a Mood. 
> 
> Anyway. Sorry it took so long for me to get this chapter out! I'm marking the fic as complete for now, since I'm pretty much out of ideas. Thank you all so much for reading and for all your nice comments. I didn't expect this fic to get so much love, but seeing that it has makes my heart soar. 
> 
> The Huntress is probably my favorite killer in the game, right next to Philip, I think. I also have some Russian heritage and took a few Russian classes in college, so how can I not love her? (And so of course I had to sneak some Russian into this chapter, as well.) I also realized while writing this that Anna's attitude felt kinda similar to Evan's. Though I don't think they'd get along very well if they ever did meet. 
> 
> That's all for now, folks. As always, please leave comments if you liked the fic! And you can also follow me on Tumblr @lungsie-ku, if you want. I yell about DBD a lot on there. Cheers, and happy holidays!

Anna considers herself to be on rather amiable terms with death. To survive as long as she has can only be done if one encounters death often, and challenges it. Like two deer, antlers locked in an eternal duel. Yes, Anna knows death, and is fairly sure she respects it. But not too much.

Standing among the many little graves she’s dug over the years, for all the little girls taken in from the woods, the little girls who were always too feeble to survive the winters, Anna hums her mother’s lullaby. The voice sounds so foreign to her now, though she knows the sound comes from her own throat. It drifts over the piles of dirt and through the trees curtained with frost. And with the notes carried far on the wind, though no one is left to hear, Anna thinks about death. Death, and her mother.

This winter has been the harshest yet. Her traps are empty, as are all the villages. Not even the men, in their strange clothes and holding those contraptions that burst with fire and noise like nothing Anna has ever heard, wander into her domain anymore. She is finally, truly, alone.

There is wood aplenty to keep her warm, but no game, and nothing more lives in the frozen ground to forage. And so for the first time since the day her mother stepped in front of the charging elk, Anna ponders her own death.

The way she sees it, she has few options. She can sit by the hearth and wait to starve, sit in the cold and wait to freeze, or take one of her hatchets, and…

No. _No_.

Anna has survived too long to surrender to the arms of death so easily. Death is just another hunter, stalking its prey. Stalking her, wearing her out in a chase. She knows this tactic, has employed it before, on prey of her own. It will not work on her, Anna assures herself. She is no fragile yearling. No hungry wolf will take her by the throat.

Not without her biting back.

Anna pictures death as a man. A man in white like the winter that has stolen her food, and the leaves from the great trees. But death is not an old man. He’s young, young like the men that have come through her forest with their impossible weapons. She watched them. It wasn’t hard to learn that they maimed because it pleased them, not because they were threatened.

Death is nothing but a pale little boy, jealous for all that does not belong to him. Now the image is clear, and Anna howls with laughter. She will ensnare death like any other foolish quarry. And she will feast on it.

Anna leaves the graves, and sharpens her hatchets for the hunt.

And when she is out in the cold, gliding over the roots and bushes brittle with rime, she feels alive again. Though her stomach twists, hollow and wanting, she has no fear. Nestled in the dead branches she finds a bird’s nest. The eggs are small but not worthless. She swallows the insides and saves the shells to grind up later, and when the mother returns, a flying hatchet brings it down too fast to even flinch. She tears into the little feathered body and eats the heart raw. And Anna wonders, licking the blood from her lips, if this is how death felt when it stole her mother. Did it savor the kill, the feeling of life draining away beneath its fingers? Or did it simply move on to its next meal, with no thought whatsoever?

Anna stares down at the soft little corpse in her palms. She brushes the feathers down, and something inside her aches for the thing. It was only doing its duty. And then she came and snatched right it out of the sky, like the elk had struck down her own mother.

Still cradling the dead bird, Anna kneels down onto the hard earth, and her tears freeze under her mask.

“Извините меня, пожалуйста,” she whispers, stroking the bloodied feathers. _Please forgive me._

And a voice out of the cold answers her.

**_You have done nothing wrong, my little bear._ **

It is her mother’s voice.

Anna’s heart nearly freezes in her chest. She looks up from the bird to the forest. Her vision swims with tears, or so she thinks, for all the trees seem to shift and waver. The shadows are different, too, and Anna begins to wonder how many hours she has lost to her hunt, though she can’t bring herself to think on it too hard.

_Mama?_

**_Yes, my darling. It is me._ **

_But Mama, how—_

**_Listen to me, my Anna, my sweet Anna._ **

_Yes, Mama. What is it?_

**_You must come with me. Leave this cold, barren place. There is nothing left for you here._ **

_But Mama, our home is here, the one you built._

**_I have found us a better one, my Anna. One where we can be together, and hunt, like we did when you were just a girl. Would you like that, my little bear?_ **

Too shocked now to weep, Anna stands, and breathes in the strange, suddenly foggy air.

_Yes, Mama. Yes._

**_Good. Good girl. Now come with me, and you can hunt all you like. You can hunt forever. With me. Would you like that, Anna?_ **

_Yes, Mama._

And at the words, a rain begins to fall on this new forest.

**_Very good. Then let us begin._ **

The voice hums a familiar song, and Anna joins it. And the beast in her chest howls.

And she hunts. 


End file.
